The Stolen Baby

Come listen to my story
Come listen to my song,
I'll tell you about the stolen baby;
I pray that I'm not wrong.

What daily papers tell us
Surely must be so.
I read it in the papers
And heard it over the radio.

That somebody stole this baby
From Mr. Lindbergh's home,
And left those two dear parents
Here to weep and mourn.

God had blessed them with this babe,
It was a little boy;
He was his father's pleasure,
And his mother's joy.

Now this mother's joy is sorrow,
It turned to bitter pain;
She's praying to the God above,
To return it back again.


Oh, wouldn't it be a pleasure,
Oh, wouldn't it be joy;
For those two parents
To get back their baby boy.

I pray that God in heaven
Will hear this mother's prayer;
For their grief and sorrow
Oh, is more than they can bear.

They look in every city,
They search in every town;
They look the country over,
This baby's not been found.

I pray that God in heaven
Will shield it from all harm,
And return it safe home again
Into its mother's arms.

Now they say they found the baby
So the paper said;
It was five miles from the father's home,
But the little one was dead.

Oh! isn't that an awful task,
For some trusting friend
To break the news to the parents
That their little one was dead.

I saw the mother's picture
With her head bowed in her hands;
She was praying to the God above
That they might catch the guilty man.

The guilty man that did this,
I fear God will never hear.
I pray the law will find him
And give him the electric chair.
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.